Chapter Three

  I didn’t sleep much after that. I was awake throughout the night worrying about whether or not someone would come for me, to take me away, or… to kill me.

  I had killed someone. I had killed someone. Two people, actually. And it felt–

  Good.

  It felt good. Murdering someone felt good. Was I going insane? I must be. Nobody enjoyed murdering, NOBODY! Not unless they are a murderer, And I wasn’t a murderer. Was I?

  No. No. I would not claim that title. It was an accident, after all. It just…. Happened. I couldn’t have changed fate, could I?

  There was no point dwelling on it now. I murdered them, there's no going back on that.

  I laid on my back, staring at the stars. I wanted to cry, I should cry, but I couldn’t. The tears wouldn’t come. No emotions other than anger and confusion would.

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  Why was I like this? Why could I, all of a sudden, shoot fire from out of my hands? It didn’t make sense! It wasn’t like normal people could do that. I could though, I could.

  I sighed, sat up, and tried to make a plan in my head. I could run away to a foreign country? Plenty of people do that in books, and it always works, too! No, I’d need a visa to travel. That costs money, and takes a while to get approved for. By the time I’ve got my hands on one the police would have already figured out I committed murder.

  Murder to the second degree. That’s what I’d be charged for. I’d be in prison for at least twenty years, if not more.

  Stop thinking like that. I will not get caught. It will not happen.

  I stood, and readied myself. I would figure this out. I would frame someone, it should be easy enough. But… Everyone on the block saw as the man went up in flames. It would be impossible to frame someone!

  That's when I realized I was bleeding, from the bullet I had completely forgotten about, and the adrenaline was starting to wear off. I peeled away the rest of the sleeve, blood coating it. It made me sick to my stomach, seeing that. It was unsightly, and it hurt.

  I hesitantly wrapped part of the torn sleeve around the wound and tied it–or tried to, anyways. It was a small piece of fabric, barely making it all the way around my arm.

  At least I wasn’t actually shot, only slightly grazed.

  Gods this would be a whole nother story if I had been shot,

  I heard a sound, suddenly, tearing me out of my thoughts. A deep gravelly cough. I turned, and there stood a man. A man.

  Shit. What do I do now?